


tell me i'm an angel

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (kinda), Blood, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rentboys, Soulmates, Violent Thoughts, carving, mute ciel, shota ciel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: He says he wants to tear you apart, that he's a demon let in by the shame of old men. You feel like a confessional.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, on quiet nights, your mother talks to you as you fall asleep. Sometimes stories from her childhood-- raised on infinite acres of land with every need met, and sometimes she would describe, in romantic detail, the way snails and worms came out from the ground whenever it rained. You could never quite picture your mother staring at the mud for things as disgraceful as worms and snails. You liked to imagine her in the baby blue forget-me-nots she picks on your birthday, makes into crowns and bracelets. Her elegant, gentle hands don't belong in the dirt. 

This night she doesn't talk of her childhood. She tells you a story about soulmates. And freckles. She takes your hand into hers and presses her thumb against a small mark in the center of your wrist. "I was always told," she says, her voice soft, "that freckles like these are places your soulmate most often kissed you. Your past life gives them to your current life. A small gift.”

Soulmates are too big a concept for your little head-- two halves of the same whole. You, personally, have never felt incomplete. And if you _were_ a part of something bigger, it wouldn't be another half. It would be the small negative space between your mother and father, it would be right here, in your bed, your mother holding you in her long arms, the fabric of her dress laying on the bed in such a way that you almost couldn’t distinguish it from the sheets. 

"You have a lot of freckles, Ciel." She runs her hand down your arm until she hits a cluster of freckles above your elbow. She doesn't expect you to respond, you can't remember the last time you said a word to her or your father, but her eyelids dip, her gentle smile fades and for the smallest moment, she looks like the saddest woman alive. A Lady of Sorrow in the flesh. 

She sighs and smooths the top of your head, presses a kiss to your temple, and holds you until long after you fall asleep. 

You wonder which of these men are supposed to be your soulmate. They all kiss you so easily. On your hands, your shoulder blades, leave marks on your neck. You wonder which of these men are meant to complete you. Your father smiles at you from across the room, and a strange man smiles against your neck, his hands on your hips. You wonder if you'll ever grow big enough to no longer interest your father. You hope that doesn't happen. 

He calls you over and you bounce out of the lap you're in and run over to him, stand tall in front of him. He pulls you into his lap, and of course, you fit perfectly. Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone-- You were made for him, you made to be shown off by him. Which is exactly what he does, back to his chest, legs spread with your knees hooked around his thighs. This was always your favorite part of nights like these. 

You could feel the excitement in the air like lightning building in clouds, a storm approaching. You have to close your eyes, the faces of men, (your father's friends, so you should be able to trust them), making you a particular kind of nervous, an anxiety that prickles up your thighs, into your chest. 

"I'm thinking of something special for tonight, Ciel," he says, "All you have to do is sit still." His hands are wandering up your thighs, lingering on every freckle he comes across. "Sebastian?"

A man you've never seen before, tall and smiling, breaks apart from the crowd, his expression unlike the desperate hunger of the other men. He reaches forward, and with a gloved hand, he runs his knuckles across your cheek. His voice is sweet and clear-- honeysuckle: "He's certainly something special," he says, his eyes on your father, your eyes glued to him, "I'd be honored, Earl Phantomhive."

You're used to things going over your head, so the way they talk to each other, long glances and knowing smiles, doesn't bother you. Your father whispers something about everything being okay, something about trust, but you can feel your heart firm in your throat, beating wildly just from seeing this man.

You go with him willingly, and it passes somewhere in your mind that this man probably paid for you, and your father was somehow persuaded to hand you over to someone, despite his constant assurance that he would never let any of these men ever touch you. You can't find the resentment you know should be there. You can't find any fear. 

The man, Sebastian, with your hand in his as he leads you to one of the guest bedrooms, speaks very casually: "Your father says you don't speak," and then looks over his shoulder to see if you'll prove him wrong. You won't. You blink. 

He keeps moving forward. He walks past all of the bedrooms you would guess, all the ones not used by noble or official guests, by the men that sip scotch in the sitting room with your father late at night, use words you don't know and tell stories you find hard to believe. 

He stops in front of a door you're very familiar with, looks down at you. Your hand feels so small in his, the way it feels when you say the Lord's Prayer during Mass, holding your father's hand. You're keenly aware of exactly how helpless you are. 

He opens the door, and you almost don't expect to see _your_ bed but another, to have forgotten where your room is, made a mistake. But, sure enough, your four-poster sits against the center of the back wall. Your stuffed animals perfectly atop the duvet. Sebastian, graciously, doesn't pull you in, seems to understand how odd it is to have anyone besides your parents and the rare servant in your room, especially for this. Your father didn't even touch you here, never could manage to. 

He drops down to one knee, his easy smile the kindest expression you've ever seen on a man's face. "Young Lord?" There's something in his eye, though, some spark of hunger. Not desperate, not sad-- doesn't make you pity him. It feels proper to who he is, as though his hunger is not a result of an unfinished, unfulfilled life but the exact opposite, as though his hunger is essential for the life he wants to lead. It sparks nausea in the pit of your stomach, and you wonder how your father could entrust you to such a man. You wonder what kind of honeysuckle words he told your father, what lies he spread. 

And then he holds your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of his glove, and you could reach forward and trace the path of his lips. He lifts your hand and kisses the freckle lying in the center of your wrist. 

You can blame it all on fate. You walk in the room, and Sebastian, neat and proper, closes the door behind you. 

It’s a quiet night. The dragonflies buzz in front of your window, their wings shimmering in the moonlight. You think for a moment that maybe they aren’t dragonflies, but spirits, your mother having told you that dragonflies only come out during the day. You think maybe they’re trying to take you somewhere, maybe they’ll press close to all the freckles on your body, try to convince you of sweet, green pastures and fields full of wildflowers.

Sebastian says he'll draw a knife from the freckle on your stomach all the way to the one on the back of your neck. He says this while inside you (and you've never held anyone inside you like this; he has to keep assuring that you won’t split in two). He says this while his hands cover your entire chest. He says this while breathless, lips against your neck (and for a moment you do not feel small, you feel completely grown). You feel like dust caught in sunlight; you feel like the space between violin strings.

He says there's something about you, from the moment he saw you clinging to your father's sleeve he couldn't stop thinking about you. He says he'll take you anywhere you wish to go, and you believe him. You are a pearl wrapped in the shell of him, flesh of his flesh-- so it's hard to think of him as a stranger. It's hard to think of him as anything other than belonging to you, and you belonging to him.

He says he wants to tear you apart, that he's a demon let in by the shame of old men. You feel like a confessional. And when he's done, and too much is inside you to fit neatly, you're sure you know the ins and outs of slippery shame. You're sure you know the ins and outs of Sebastian. 

You fit well against the side of him, your arm thrown over his chest, your head tucked into his neck. You think about him pulling you open, layers of skin over meat, blood. You wonder if he'd be curious enough to open your stomach, or if he'd go straight for your heart, let the rest of you rot in this very bed. You think about your blood covering his teeth. You fall asleep that way. 

The next night isn’t the same. You see your father from across the room, and he calls you over, but Sebastian, the image of him stuck in your head, isn't there. Your father says you have a new client, and the choice of words echoes. _Client._ Like he’s some businessman, selling parts of you to anyone willing to buy. You wonder how much they’re paying.

You have never been good at saying no, not to your father who holds you around your waist, whispers calmly in your ear. So, you walk down to one of the guest bedrooms with this man-- shorter and mousier than Sebastian, thinner in awkward places. He stumbles over his own words, wrings his hands again and again, his eyes darting from one corner to another. He's too full of shame. 

And even with the door closed, he moves in short, choppy motions, keeps looking into your eyes, asking for permission. You're half-naked, and you're somewhere else entirely. You keep thinking about Sebastian, even while in this other man's lap. When he goes to kiss you, bitten lips and a faint blush, you picture Sebastian with his hands buried inside your rib cage, holding your beating heart. You can't do this. You can’t feign loyalty to a stranger. 

You let him fuck you anyway, can feel the sweat pool in thin beads on his receding hairline when he presses his face into your too-small neck. You think of Sebastian the entire time, enter a daze, your eyes seeing nothing but pure color, your mind seeing nothing but a solid figure dressed in black. 

And when the man is done and sleeping in the guest bed, you slip out from under the covers and into your own room. You undress completely and imagine Sebastian lifting you onto the bed, some unspoken attachment confessed through imaginary touch. Surely, he’s not thinking of you. But you can still think about him. You can still want him. 

And then you think: he _could_ be thinking about you. He could be staring up at the same moon hanging over your window thinking about the way you wrapped around him in this very bed. A wave draws over you, fast enough to crack your ribs, warm enough to make the slip of the covers feel like sheets of freezing water pulling you into a riptide. You have to go see him. You won't be able to sleep without him. 

You think about the way he kissed your wrist, like he knew exactly how to appeal to you, like he already knew you. You pull your duvet over your head and you swear, though these are freshly washed, that you can make out Sebastian's scent. It pushes your already thin willpower over the edge. You’re out of bed before you can think better of it.


	2. Chapter 2

He's such a small boy. You were supposed to use one of the guest bedrooms, supposed to take maybe thirty minutes, supposed to only touch him-- Rules meant to keep his rose-petal skin unbruised, rules you broke pretty obviously, pretty easily.

You weren't surprised when you weren't invited after that. You can't say you regret anything either. You find it funny that the Earl was able to dangle his firstborn son in front of the mouths of monsters and still have some expectation of dignity and rule-following. Like those men (like  _ you _ ) wouldn't take the opportunity to ruin him in ways he won't ever understand. You felt an obligation to the task, a compass pointing you towards that small Phantomhive boy and his destruction. You'd been around too long to question your instincts. 

But it wasn't that you were completely heartless, far from it. There /was/ something about Ciel, his deep-water eyes, his small build, the way he feel asleep so easily against you, like he didn't think you would actually hurt him. Like you hadn't hurt him at all. 

Maybe it was the easy life of decadence that made you so unprepared for such mundane joy, or maybe it was the hunger that made you believe you would never be satisfied. Maybe it was the way Ciel welcomed you into himself, seemed to have a hunger of his own nipping at the edges of his body-- You believe he is special. Worthy in a way adults could never be. He had a supple, blue-tint soul. You can imagine yourself ripping it out of him, leaving him for dead-- in the same line, you can imagine keeping him safe and healthy, giving him all the luxuries he's used to, keeping him soft and tender just for yourself.

You're hardly the type to keep servants, your residence was nowhere near big enough to necessitate it, and you can't imagine hiring just for this boy, so you imagine yourself waiting on him hand and foot. Not out of affection, but as payment for his own sacrifice, a sacrifice he couldn’t even begin to comprehend until the eve of his death.

You're sure that you thinking about it so hard (after only one encounter with the boy) is what manifests him at your front door. Soaked to the bone from the sudden storm, glaring up at you in nothing but a white dress shirt and what must be his father's coat. He's such a small boy, you think, and you let him in. 

He doesn't say a word, and his silent movements and expressions carry a weighted charm of their own. It makes the interaction between you more of a dance, a game, than normal conversation ever could be. A set of moves, each containing their own meaning, each of you only having half of the rule book. 

You can’t be surprised at him showing up, your own internal pushes and pulls guiding you to him, tempting you to find him wherever he was. You can understand what drove him to your door in the middle of the night. You can understand the expression on his face as he stomps through your door, throws the coat onto your floor. You understand him (in a way, you made him like this, cracked open the pit of desire he hadn’t know of before) (ruined a pure-daisy boy).

He goes up the stairs, and for a moment you don't want to follow him. You take the coat and hang if from the rack by the door. And you stand there, thinking about the image of Ciel walking in your house, tracking in rainwater, arrogant and incredibly vulnerable. Your body carries you his way without you having to think much further. 

He left the door open, and it can only be seen as an invitation. He's perched on your bed, legs crossed, leaning back with his weight held up by his thin arms. He belongs in an oil painting, a noble family portrait. You wonder what he would be like if he had been into an appropriate family. He wouldn't be the type to run away from home and into a monster's arms.

You can't say you'd like him anywhere else, though. 

You think about bringing him to church. You're sure he's a christened Catholic child, surrounded by lilies on Easter, poinsettias on Christmas. You're sure he's learned how to pray, how to confess his sins, how to take the Body of Christ into his own. You wonder what he'd pray about right now-- God is distant, though. A long lost origin. 

Ciel looks up at you, rolls his ankle, frowns like you're the one who got him soaked. You can't imagine a god who would make something like him, tempt you in such obvious ways. You can't imagine a just world ruled by such a capricious, conniving sort of king. It's better to not think of God at all.

You hold his cheek, and despite the pout on his face, you can feel the way he leans into your touch. His eyes are a perfect blue, lit by the early moonlight, half-covered by his dark eyelashes. He's bait, the ideal bait. 

"I can get you a different shirt, if you don't mind. I'd rather not sleep in a puddle. Assuming you’re letting me sleep in my own bed, of course."

He glares at you, but he doesn't protest. He closes his eyes, tilts his head back. You watch his neck stretch out, skin sliding over slim muscle, and for a moment you can't do anything at all. It's obscene. 

You press your mouth right against his jugular, push him back onto the sheets (puddling, all of the water), lean over him-- and you can almost justify it. It's easier to take his shirt off like this, to slip all the buttons through their holes while he's whining (and you can hardly hear him over the rush of his blood). And you can drop his shirt on the floor (only to see that he really is wearing nothing under it). A body exposed.

He's soft stomach, sloping curve from the hollow of his ribs up to his flat chest. You think about breaking all of his bones and nursing him back to health. You think about leaving bruises anywhere they’ll catch, carving your Christian name into his stomach. You think about every way you could claim him, each more violent than the last. And you think, very briefly, about spoiling him. Giving him everything he asks for. You work in a circle.

He clings to you, tiny hand in your hair. And then the hand is against your chest, pushing lightly. You could believe he didn't mean it-- or that you don't care if he meant it, you'll take him how you'd like and he could protest, but who would come to his side? You look up at him. There are tears pooling in his dark eyes. They catch the light like fireflies. 

He grabs the collar of your shirt and tugs. You smile. "Yes, young Lord?"

He shakes his head, gnawing his bottom lip. You're tempted to keep going anyway, to push him fully over the edge, to break him until he has nothing left to cling to. You rub your thumb over his cheek, the valleys in your fingerprints filled by him, bring the pad of your thumb to your lips, lay your tongue flat against the taste. He sobs.

"Do you think I'd hurt you?" A grand lie, maybe the grandest you've ever told. 

He pulls again on your collar, shakes his head. 

"You can tell me."

He opens his mouth, and you brace yourself for his voice, think of a million ways it could sound, think of all the ways it could settle inside you. He doesn't say a word. You understand him all the same, something settles inside you all the same. Your lips linger against his collarbone and you whisper, "I won't hurt you. Not unless you ask me to. But I do reserve my right to imagination." Another tug. You sigh. "I won't lie either. Would you like me to share my fantasies?" He slips his fingers into your hair. Despite the tears on his cheeks, he no longer seems vulnerable. Despite him being naked and alone in your bed, his father and only defense probably dead asleep, he carries a certain presence with him, and despite his smallness, you can't help but want to listen to his every command, to do your best to understand him. 

You tuck him under your covers, and you lie beside him. It takes no time at all for him to be holding onto you, leg wrapped around leg, arms around your chest. He fits so easily against you, it's hard to imagine that he isn't simply made for the sole purpose of filling all your cracks. 

Your dreams are always a luxury, a taste of something so terribly decadent. A normal night warrants no dreams, hands over no fantasies. You sleep, and then you wake. But tonight, you imagine a small Lord Phantomhive, successor to the throne of the underworld, bodies at his feet. You imagine the look in his eye and the scars on his body, all the things he had to do to make it to the very summit of the shadows. And despite that, there are blooming flowers surrounding him. Baby blue forget-me-nots.

Dreams are such tricky things. You can never quite pin down where they lie between fantasy and nightmare, but as you see the face of Ciel, imagine the shade of his soul, stained by unspeakable tragedy, nipped at by the roaches haunting his world, you can't think of anything sweeter. He is a spider, clinging to a thread that, unbeknownst to him, leads directly to your grasp. He is your prey, and he will never escape. His heart is already yours. 

It's a small miracle. You think maybe you remind him of his father, but without all the messy familial obligations, especially those of High Society. He doesn't have to fill your shoes, he doesn't have to be kind to you, he doesn't have to take any of your advice (if you were the type to offer it). He can be a brat, and he knows you will find it amusing. He knows you’ll still be willing to dirty him up, carve him open.

At least this version of him will. How accurate your peerings into his cluttered head are, you don't know. You will only have your projection of him. 

You dream of his voice, smooth and boyish, with a certain bitter roughness, like dark coffee, like the texture of poison ivy. You dream of his soft stomach meeting your mouth, and your mouth meeting his. You dream of Ciel after a few years in your web. You dream of a storm within a boy's body. 

When you do wake, and when the world feels like a cold bath slipping up your nose and into your lungs, he is lying beside you. The morning light falls over his face, his hands pulled close to his chest, the covers draping over his subtle curves. This boy is not the crowned prince of the underworld. He is too unmarked. He is too clean. Maybe in a few years, he will have enough luck, and maybe in a few years, you will be the only one at his side. You can only dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rlly proud of this chapter actually. i was kinda convinced this fic sucked ass but i'm coming around on it. one more chapter i think! hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> pls feel free to leave kudos and comments <3


	3. Chapter 3

He says it won't hurt, and that if you ask nicely, he'll do it while you're unconscious. You can’t tell him that your voice left long before he ever found you. You can’t tell him that you're okay with him hurting you, marking you, that it’s worth begging for-- if it's him, and if it's you, you're sure you'd be okay with a lot of things. 

He says if you lie still, find something to focus on (the corner of the ceiling, a section of the wall), it'll be over before you know it. You hate the idea of pretending like what's happening isn't happening. You hate the idea of ignoring whatever Sebastian gives you, even if it hurts-- especially if it hurts. You don't want him to think you're ungrateful. You hate him assuming that you are.

You take his hand in yours, and it's warm-- warmer than the last man that touched you (you want to apologize for letting anyone else touch you). He kisses your cheek, his unoccupied hand on your waist, and you know it's only a matter of time before he realizes the bruises on his hips are different from the ones he left there, before he realizes that he isn't the only stranger to have used you. 

You close your eyes tight. You can feel tears well up again (nothing has ever made you feel more pathetic than this). You can feel your chest crack open, something break inside you, your stomach roll over, buried under blood and bile. 

His mouth is already clasped on your thighs, his tongue sharp in a way a blade could never be, cutting you apart skillfully and with the highest degree of patience. You yelp, whine like a dog. You can feel the canines of his smile against the most sensitive skin on your body. You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes your hip, pressing his thumb firmly into the tenderest bruise. It pulls a cry from your throat, scratchy and terrible. And then, the way the sun comes out after a storm, his hands are the softest thing in the world, his mouth the kindest-- you would say it makes up for the pain if the pain wasn't a primary attraction of its own.

Sebastian isn't scared of hurting you, doesn't delude himself into thinking this is all out of love.. As he bites a mark into your thigh, you can at least be assured that he is being entirely and consciously selfish. As he opens you up, rocks his fingers into you with all the caution in the world, you can be assured he is doing it for his own satisfaction. 

He lays you in the center of his bed, the sheets pulled back, unable to hide you. He asks if you're willing to be his, and you wonder what's so ambiguous about running to his house in the middle of the night, what part about that means anything other than  _ do whatever you'd like with me. _ You nod and reach up, lay your hand flat against his chest. His heartbeat is deep and steady, and the complete opposite of your breathing. He smiles, and a soft, warm feeling spreads through your fingertips. You think maybe this is the face of God; you think maybe you died on the way here and this is your heaven (you’d certainly die for it).You think maybe Sebastian is nothing like those men, and the pain he inflicts on you, the pain he will continue to inflict on you, is actually a sign of his divinity. 

He lays a hand on your stomach-- a miracle, surely, surely he's performing a miracle-- and his nails sharpen against your skin, or maybe they were always this sharp, this strange. You can hardly focus. 

It's a silent affair, dead quiet. You barely blink. Maybe you have died. Maybe you're bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, hidden under your father's coat, hidden under mud and grass. His nails are sharp enough to cut into you-- the pain is blinding. Visceral, sharp, blinding. 

But his kiss is sweet. And he lets you dig your own nails into his wrist, reminding you to stay still in that honey-slick voice of his. If he's a monster, the kind from fairy tales and the bible, then you must be made for monsters. You must be exactly ordered for this. 

The pain becomes just another part of your body. Sebastian becomes just another force reminding you of it. Sebastian becomes a monster of eldritch proportions, and you become a small pebble of a boy, held in his palm. If you're bleeding, you can't feel it. If you're crying, you don't know. But he kisses your forehead, your neck, bites your shoulder, leaves a mark. He wraps his arms around you (a small pebble of a boy), and he holds you on your side as the moon sinks below the horizon and the sun comes up. 

You don’t feel any blood pool under you, another sign that you’re unreal, or a corpse. Another sign that none of this is really happening. A half-dead dream of a boy never meant to stay alive.

You wonder if this mark will carry over into your next life, a spread of freckles across whatever body you grow into. You would surely crawl through the night-mud and rain in your father's coat as many times as it takes, get sick or rot, just for Sebastian’s claim on your next body.

You’re connected to him-- a thin gossamer string wrapped around his ring finger, around your neck. As you slip into sleep (or death), it only gets tighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed!! pls feel free to leave kudos n comments <3


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